Jarel Craith vanished.
Or at least he seemed to. In truth he advanced at such a speed that even Redmane’s exalted senses could barely keep up with him. It felt like the Praetor tapped into an additional source of fuel.
Anger.
An upward cut threatened to bisect him, forcing a decision; move off of it backwards, or laterally. Redmane chose laterally, and Jarel’s blade sheared off his left arm at the shoulder. A downward cut came right after it, forcing him to continue to move. But as he glanced at the image of his arm spinning through the air, a spiraling spray of blood trailing from the place it had been severed, he couldn’t help but feel as though this very thing had happened to him before.
Corpus: 13.262
Wrath (4)
Wrath (0)
Evasion +40
He’d have to keep spending these painfully earned stacks of Wrath to keep his Evasion high enough to stay alive.
Ultimately, this would be a losing proposition.
Redmane was barely keeping up already. And now his opponent was showing him what he could actually do. He had a feeling there would be further surprises, and if he was barely ready for this version of Jarel Craith, whatever the man had in store may very well be beyond his power to overcome.
He ducked and weaved, leapt off of the track of Jarel Craith’s relentless sword as it pursued him through the burning forest. Quick a process as it was, he didn’t have time to regenerate his severed arm. But the immediate surge of extra Evasion gave him just enough space to think about his dilemma, however briefly.
He was out—leveled.
His opponent held the advantage in skill as well.
And the usual mechanisms Redmane employed to even the odds were less than overwhelming in this situation.
In order to amass Wrath he had to deal damage, take damage, or inflict a Condition.
He jumped backward and the tip of Jarel’s sword whooshed past his nose, a cut which would have sliced his head into two pieces if he had tried to dodge it a heartbeat later. A pair of enormous trees framed the Numantian from behind, their canopies ablaze.
Redmane glanced up at the fire.
And he had an idea.
He’d have to beg Flora’s forgiveness for trying it. But the forest was going to burn down whether he tried it or not.
Flame of Redmane
Gnosis: 196
A curtain of crimson-violet flame swept from his hand. Jarel vaulted high over it, but he wasn’t the intended target anyway. The trees were the target. They were old in this part of the forest, tall and stout, thick of trunk. If he was fortunate, they would burn for some time.
But first, he’d have to be fortunate enough for this to provide him with any benefit in the first place.
The flame found purchase on the trunks of three elderly trees. At the same time Jarel Craith reached the apex of his jump and descended with his blade high, streaking down at Redmane with Gnosis-fueled velocity. Redmane dove left and the Numantian’s overhead slash split the boulder he’d been standing on a moment ago.
As he flew backward, Redmane shielded his eyes from the spray of rocky shrapnel to glance at his handiwork.
His flame found purchase. Now he awaited results.
Jarel Craith, meanwhile, waited for nothing. His blade destroyed a boulder and changed course in the same instant, seeking Redmane’s head. And the dance continued, as Redmane’s pulse grew faster, louder in his ears. Because his stacks of Wrath were falling off, one by one. And the only way he’d gain more would be to feel the bite of that sword again.
Another dodge came too late.
He canted his head to the side, fast enough to avoid it being chopped in two. Not fast enough for it to clip off his left ear.
Corpus: 13,001
Next time would be worse.
But what else could he do…
Corpus: 14, 445
Gnosis: 287
Wrath (9)
Redmane’s eyes widened.
Wrath (0)
Evasion +90
His pulse sped up, but for a different reason. Power and vitality poured into him like hot water from a kettle. And he felt the touch of Flora’s magic in it, for the richness of her Gnosis was deep in the flesh of the trees. It was like eating a slice of Magister’s Delight pie, lovingly baked and served fresh from the oven, still steaming.
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Jarel Craith short forward like a knight on horseback, his sword aimed at Redmane’s heart.
He turned the blade aside with a backhanded claw.
Corpus: 15, 647
Gnosis: 379
Wrath (9)
Wrath (0)
Evasion +90
The Numantian executed a flawless pattern of advancing thrusts and quick, controlled slashes with only the tip of the blade. A chain of attacks he’d used a few times already in this engagement, but Redmane lacked the speed to retort. Now he held his ground, his feet rooted to the spot as he slipped to the side of the darting point of that sword like a boxer slipping punches to the head.
It was much easier.
Corpus: 16, 661
Gnosis: 481
Wrath (9)
Wrath (0)
Attack Speed Up x9
The conclusion of that chain of attacks drew near. Redmane watched for it, waited patiently as he eluded Jarel Craith’s artful assault. When it came, he knew there would be only the slightest of pauses before the Praetor launched into another sequence of maneuvers, an infinitesimal window of time. Something a mere mortal, or even a young divinity, would not have been able to exploit.
But Redmane could.
And he had an arm left, so he used it.
In the instant that impossibly narrow opening presented itself, Redmane’s claw shot out like a barbed flail. A mortal would have merely seen a blur, but sharper eyes could observe how that arm shapeshifted en route to its target, stretching out toward it, the action of his shoulder making it curl and crack like a whip.
The claw shredded the front of Jarel Craith’s fine robes.
It carved four jagged lines of blood into the flesh beneath.
A blow which would have felled a lesser adversary. But this was a Numantian of rank. The first of many Redmane would encounter, he supposed.
Jarel Craith staggered backward, his eyes nearly bulging with terror and rage. He looked down at what Redmane had done to him, and it was clear by his expression that he thought his opponent got lucky the first time. That he’d simply made a mistake, and allowed Redmane to touch him. Attributing it to his failure rather than Redmane’s success.
Now he had another wound to emotionally contend with.
Redmane couldn’t tell if it was his intuition or his third eye or some other sense, giving him these impressions. But he felt sure of them.
Not that it would require any of those things to see Jarel Craith’s unhinged expression. The man was doing his utmost to contain it. But he was failing.
Corpus: 17,599
Gnosis: 586
Wrath (9)
“You will not touch me again,” Jarel Craith had a quiet rasp of a voice, even though it shook with fury. “Today, you perish under this blade.”
There was a spray of blood as Redmane regenerated his arm and his ear. He grinned at the Numantian and gave him a mocking bow. “How does it feel to be scarred by a Monster,” he said.
The Numantian’s glare intensified, like a dam cracking. Threatening to burst. He clenched his jaw and raised his weapon into a ready position, standing in what Redmane supposed was a textbook posture, drilled into him since just after he’d taken his first steps as a baby. The intensity of that stare did not diminish, but at least he looked as if he had it under control for the moment.
So, this was how Jarel Craith tamed his anger.
By pouring it into a cast, to let it cool and set into steel.
He was the sort of man for whom discipline and structure were lifelines. Crutches. Restraints, created to help one tell himself he fought for something other than the scent of blood, the exhilaration of battle, the shining joy of the kill.
Redmane wondered if he knew the truth about himself.
Wrath (0)
Attack Speed Up x9
This time, Redmane went on the attack.
His arms moved at the speed of thought. At the speed of gods. And his hands, as if possessed of their own violent will, transformed from strike to strike, becoming all manner of implements of death, an arsenal of flesh and bone. They struck as claws, as blades both broad and fine, as spears and mauls and spiked maces.
It was his turn to test his opponent. Poke and prod at those defenses, find out what would work and what would not. Jarel Craith remained formidable despite Redmane’s gains in speed, blocking and parrying with his sword, evading when he must. He had to admire the efficiency of the Numantian’s movements, even though it was a style he’d never bother trying to mimic himself.
The Praetor was always an inch out of reach. Never more, never less. He was perfectly comfortable being one inch from the point of a blade or spear tip or claw at all times, his evasions never taking him farther from harm than they needed to. This kept him in the ideal range to counterattack, to attempt to maneuver Redmane into favorable positions.
That hint of rage he’d seen moments ago was gone. Fully subsumed. Redmane felt as though Jarel Craith fought himself just as vigorously as he fought his opponent. He seemed to be prevailing over one of the two, at least.
At least it wasn’t Redmane. Not anymore.
The Flame of Redmane began to spread from the three mighty trees he’d painted it with, and his power spread with it.
Corpus: 19,888
Gnosis: 771
Wrath (12)
Redmane couldn’t tell precisely, but it appeared only the trees and plants enhanced by Flora’s magic were feeding him, whereas the mundane foliage was not. Nonetheless, it was all the fuel he required to finish this Numantian and be on to the next one, for he now had a notion he would be fighting them for a long, long time to come.
But even with Wrath to heighten his powers, this one would still be tough.
He was wrapped all the way back into his discipline. Fighting like he was one of his own Sicari, a soulless thing.
Redmane wondered if he could draw that soul back out into the open.
Wrath (0)
Might +120
“I notice you struggling with yourself at times, ser Praetor,” said Redmane, as he ducked a swipe of Jarel’s sword.
“It’s plain in your eyes,” he added, answering that slash with a short flurry of claws.
The awesome force of those claws made the Numantian give ground, the first time he’d done so in this duel. He leapt backwards onto a high rock, and Redmane followed him with a jump so forceful it cracked the stone he’d launched himself from.
“I have a feeling this is more than duty for you. It feels personal. Which is odd, since you and I have only just met one another. Tell me, Jarel Craith, what have I done to deserve your ire?”
Redmane asked the question as he harried Jarel Craith with a longer, more aggressive flurry. The Praetor’s teeth were gritted again as he moved his sword in a defensive pattern, catching all those claws, but only barely. Their impacts sent shockwaves through him, blasts of force strong enough to leave faint claw impressions on the wall of rock several feet behind them both.
“If you don’t answer, I’ll have to make assumptions,” he said, as he kicked the Praetor in the gut with such speed there was no way he could evade.
Jarel Craith slammed into the wall of rock behind him, cracks spidering out from the point of impact. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, and he was panting, wide-eyed again.
There it was…
Redmane walked forward casually, with a grin.
“If I had to make assumptions, I would say you don’t like me because you don’t like the part of you that resembles me. I see it in you. You struggle with it, try to keep it caged.”
Jarel Craith’s eyes blazed with anger. But only for a moment. He took a breath, pried himself from his crater and assumed a ready stance again.
“You know nothing.”
But he was lying.
Redmane could see it plainly in the way his facade slipped almost immediately.
Jarel Craith appeared to be engaged in some sort of inner struggle, just then. As if he were suddenly hearing a voice from elsewhere, listening to its words. He knew what it was like because he experienced it often, having possession of minions with whom he could silently communicate.
Whatever the conversation was, Jarel Craith looked as though he didn’t want to be having it.
He looked… Afraid.
PATREON
